The last embrace

 

The dusty sunlight, a pale gold, slanted low,

across the courtyard where familiar shadows grow.
Not one for keeping moments locked in frames,
my fingers usually shied from such lame games.

But leaving for the hostel, brick walls cold and stark,
a sudden, fierce compulsion pierced the dark,
the quiet corner of my practical young mind,
and a yearning for that instant, left behind.

He sat there on the sofa, worn and deep,
a figure etched in memories I'd known to keep,
seven years a tapestry of shared space spun,
yet few the threads of touch, beneath the setting sun.

A single, fleeting press, a casual, quick embrace,
now felt like whispers lost without a trace.
But then, a shift, a pull, a feeling deep inside,
I perched upon his lap, where childhood used to hide.

And like a vine that clutches, desperate not to fall,
my arms encircled him, encompassing him all.
A sudden, tightening grip, a silent, urgent plea,
to hold onto this anchor, this familiar tree.

His answering embrace, a gentle, fragile thing,
not from a lack of love, no coldness did it bring.
But time, the tireless sculptor, had begun to mold,
his strength, once firm and steady, now a story told. 

In softened muscles, bones that felt so slight,

and in that gentle pressure, the dimming of his light.

So I squeezed him harder still, a fierce and silent vow,

to lend him all my vigor, here and now.

Through the thin fabric of his aging vest, I knew,
a dampness bloomed, a silent, heartfelt dew.
And on my cheek, a warmth, a trembling, soft descent,
The unshed tears of years, a love he always meant.

To show, but sternness, like a practiced, hardened shield,
had kept the tender currents carefully concealed.
Beneath the mask of discipline, so often worn and deep,
my Nana's boundless love, now finally could weep.

Oh, for one more lingering hold, a breath held in the air,
to etch upon my soul the texture of his hair.
To feel the rise and fall, the rhythm of his chest,
and know the warmth of being utterly blessed.

A photograph, a tangible piece to hold so near,
to banish the sharp edges of this rising fear.
If only premonition, a whisper in the breeze,
had warned me of the ending, rustling through the trees.
If only I had known that final, fading gleam,
That this farewell was more than just a waking dream.

I would have lingered longer, held him through the night,
and bathed that precious moment in an everlasting light.
Now all that lingers is the echo of his hold,
a story in my heart, more precious than pure gold,
and the bitter, aching knowledge, sharp and ever true,
that the last embrace I gave him, was the very last one too.